


Rewrite the Stars (Say You Were Made to Be Mine)

by palaces_out_of_paragraphs



Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Greatest Showman Fusion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Inspired by The Greatest Showman (2017), Iris and Barry as Zendaya’s Anne and Zac Efron’s Philip, Kissing, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romance, Song: Rewrite the Stars, The Greatest Showman, The Greatest Showman (2017) References, and one impossible meta circus, ft HR Wells as PT Barnum, nothing could keep us apart / you’d be the one I was meant to find, westallen - Freeform, what if we rewrite the stars / say you were made to be mine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27201064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palaces_out_of_paragraphs/pseuds/palaces_out_of_paragraphs
Summary: Barry Allen sees Iris West, and it’s like his world stops.The crowd in the tent is paused mid-applause, the glittering confetti stilled in the air, and then there is her, on the circus trapeze, her smile all wild and lovely and free.And it’s as if he’s no longer moving, not even breathing. Like his heart’s stopped beating and he’s being struck by lightning all over again, because he sees her and knows his entire universe is altering and he’ll never be the same.(In short:Barry runs off and joins the circus.)A Westallen x The Greatest Showman AU.
Relationships: Barry Allen & Iris West, Barry Allen/Iris West
Comments: 15
Kudos: 376





	Rewrite the Stars (Say You Were Made to Be Mine)

H.R. Wells, Barry Allen thinks, is something of an oxymoron: a con man who offers honest work, and an utter genius who talks like a total idiot and makes suggestions like, “Come and work for me.”

“Mr. Wells,” Barry protests, “I - “

“H. R., please.”

“ _H. R.,_ I can’t just run off and join the circus.”

H. R. blinks at him, clueless and confused, like _Barry’s_ the one who’s just said something completely unreasonable here, like the sentence _”Hi, I’m ringmaster H. R., come join my traveling meta circus of super-powered individuals,”_ was a normal sort of sentence that was said every day. 

(Well, then again, it probably was in his world.)

“How about this,” H. R. continues undeterred, “come with me. See an act. Just _one_ act. If you’re not sold, I won’t bother you again.”

And Barry thinks, _fine_ , because what could seeing one act do?

(And what he doesn’t know yet is:

It’ll change his entire world, that’s what it’ll do.)

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Barry Allen sees Iris West, and it’s like his world stops.

The crowd in the tent is paused mid-applause, the glittering confetti stilled in the air, and then there is her, on the circus trapeze, her smile all wild and lovely and free. 

And the thing is, he’s used to time slowing down around him, to being so fast that he can see a second stretch out, but this...this is different, somehow.

He _knows_ it is.

(It’s like he’s no longer even moving, not even breathing. Like his heart’s stopped beating and he’s being struck by lightning all over again, because he sees her and knows his entire universe is altering and he’ll never again be the same.)

And Barry has always believed that there is a basis in science for every emotion there is, that he knows from scientists that there is nothing magical about what makes people feel something for someone else. But then he sees her smile. 

And Barry thinks, _Man, that cannot be science._

(In short:

Barry runs off and joins the circus.)

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

The world was not kind to girls like her. This is a fact Iris knows.

(She can’t help but know it, not when the world reminded her of it every day of her life.)

And she’s had to work ten times as hard to receive ten times as less, work till she’s perfect and yet still somehow not enough for the people who judge.

(And she’s _good_. She knows she is. There’s a dancer-like grace in her steps and a diamond-like sharpness about her mind, cutting and brilliant and bright. And she’s got both the fearlessness and ferocity in her soul that makes her a force to be reckoned with.

The world would fall at her feet, she knows, if only it were colorblind.) 

But as it is, the world is stupid and biased, and Iris has had to fight for everything she’s ever had, and even then it’s been grudgingly given. 

Even her place in this act.

But, oh, her act. She really does love it. Love it when she climbs up toward the clouds, holds onto the bars of her trapeze, runs, and then _leaps._

And - just for a split second - it feels like she’s flying. Like she’s so light, she’s floating instead of falling, like gravity no longer has hold on her, and it’s as if all her burdens have been lifted, and her troubles can’t reach her, not when she’s twenty feet up in the air. 

But the thing about flying is, you have to come back down to earth eventually.

And normally, when Iris gets out of the ring and backstage, it’s a dip in adrenaline, a time when her heartbeat slows down and her breaths evens out, but not this time.

This time, she steps on a stray wire, feels herself start to wobble, then feels herself start to fall. And she’s tilting backwards, halfway through the air, but before she can even hit the floor, she blinks, and then: 

She’s steadied. She’s still tipped backwards like she’s in the middle of a waltz, but she’s no longer falling, and two strong hands are holding her sides and she finds herself staring into a stranger’s green eyes.

And this stranger also has pale freckles that curve into the tender hollow of his throat, before curling over his collarbones and dipping under his shirt leaving her to wonder just how far down his body they go. And he’s gazing down at her from under long, thick lashes he really has no business with, and his eyes are a green that’s flecked with the palest of gold. Like confetti, Iris thinks idly, like the golden confetti that falls in the ring and catches in the glow of the spotlight, all glittering and bright.

(And, oh, he’s pretty. Pretty in all the ways she can never have. 

It’s a shame, really.)

“Hi,” he says, and he sounds a bit breathless, like he’s the one who fell instead of her, though she has no idea why.

(Not yet. One day he’ll tell her, though, exactly how breathless her eyes made him go.)

“Hi,” she replies, raising an eyebrow. “I’m Iris West.”

“Barry,” he says, and he smiles, his eyes crinkling around the corners. “Barry Allen.”

“New hire?”

“Yes. Meta speed, as you might’ve figured out.”

And he’s still leaning over her, holding her up, like he’s dipping her while dancing, and she can feel the pleasantly intoxicating heat of him burning through her leotard and the way his hands curve perfectly into the arch of her spine, like they were shaped just to fit there.

“I’d shake your hand, Mr. Allen,” Iris says, with a smile and a raise of her brow. “But both your hands seem to be otherwise occupied.”

(Iris is just as guilty, though. She is still holding onto him too, her hands wrapped around his arms, shamelessly feeling the firm curl of his biceps beneath her palms.)

Barry’s eyes go wide, as if he hadn’t even realized where his hands were and then he nearly drops her in his quick attempt to right her back on her feet and then back away. And he is such a tall, tangled mess of long limbs and red cheeks and rushed apologies that Iris can’t help but smile.

“Sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” he blurts out, all awkward and fast. “I didn’t even think - I didn’t mean - Miss West, I apologize, I would never want to - “

And he’s even cuter when he blushes, Iris thinks. With his long-lashed emerald eyes all wide and the sharp edge of his cheekbones dusted pink and the way his arms are gesturing.

She laughs, and he stops suddenly, as if mesmerized by the sound.

(Maybe she’s just imagining things, she thinks. She is feeling sort of light-headed, after all.

It must be from her near fall.)

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says, which is just a bit of an understatement. “And since it appears we’ve already passed proprietary, you might as well call me Iris.”

“Iris,” he echoes, and he says it all nice and slow, like he’s tasting her name on his tongue.

And she finds she quite likes how he makes it sound.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

It’s easy for Barry to figure out why everyone at the circus was hired.

There’s Wally, who runs just like Barry does and leaves warm, yellow light in his wake, and there’s Cisco, who knows what you’re doing in some other dimension, and Ralph, who stretches out thin as a string.

And then there’s Iris, the only non-meta act at the circus, who might just be the most extraordinary one there.

(Is _definitely_ the most extraordinary one there.)

Because there’s really not a thing that girl can’t do, Barry thinks. She has no speed healing; she bleeds more easily than he does, her breaks take longer to heal, and yet he watches her fly through the air on a wire and then dive off to Wally down below, because Iris West toughs it out with the best and dazzles the dozens of crowds and all without any meta powers.

(And maybe, in a paradoxical kind of way, that is her superpower, doing all that she does without the aid of any.)

“You haven’t asked yet,” Iris says one day, when Barry finds himself next to her, watching her fingers fly across the typewriter in H. R.’s office.

(Because that’s yet another thing she does, Barry’s found out. She writes the circus’ advertisements and articles on the acts and interviews with the cast and H. R. prints them up and sometimes they’re so good they’ll sell to the papers.

Barry thinks he’s ever met anyone so beautiful and talented and so wildly out of his league, and he thinks he really should just give up on her. That’s what anyone with any practicality would do. 

But then Barry’s never claimed to be a practical man.)

“Ask you what?” 

Iris stops typing, turns to appraise him, blows a stray curl out of her eyes.

(She is not in her elegant costume, with its sparkling sequins. She’s changed into her practice outfit of well-worn beige and wine cotton, plain and frayed at the ends. And her hair is pulled back into a messy bun, half-undone on the top of her head, loose strands falling over her face in dark spirals.

Barry thinks he’s never seen anyone as beautiful as her.)

“What all the new acts ask,” Iris says with a shrug, and he tries not to stare as some of the leftover glitter across her collarbones catches the light and shimmers across her skin with the action. “They see the act with me and Wally, and they all know immediately: he’s meta, I’m not. The only performer in the whole _show_ who’s not. And some are brave and ask after a few minutes, others take a few days. But they all ask, eventually, what a non-powered performer like me thinks she’s doing here. So what I want to know, Barry Allen,” she says, leaning forward, ever the curious reporter, “is why haven’t you?”

Barry blinks his eyes in surprise, shakes his head, “I didn’t think I needed to ask why H. R. would hire you.”

She tilts her head, “You’re not the curious type?”

“No. I mean, yes. I am, I just - “ 

(He’s never been good with conversation, not like her. He’s prone to hour long rambles and run-on sentences that are all awkward and fast. And he can’t think of a way to say everything he feels about her, how her ferocity and beauty are enough to take his breath away.)

“I just don’t see why he _wouldn’t_ hire you, or why you’d even need any powers,” Barry says honestly, and then, because his filter’s not working and he’s really not thinking, he adds:

“You're magic already. You don’t need any more.”

And he blushes the second the words leave his mouth, looks down, tries to stifle the desire to run, because, sure, he’d _thought_ it - thought it more than once - but he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, hadn’t meant to lay himself bare like that. And he both does and doesn’t want to take it back, because he knows this just isn’t the type of thing you blurt out to girls you barely know, but it’s _true_ , it’s absolutely true:

Iris West is made of magic, and she deserves to be told that.

And when Barry glances back up, he sees Iris watching him, studying his expression, like she’s trying to find an answer written in his eyes, and she must like whatever she finds because then she _smiles._

And Barry thinks it shines brighter than all the spotlights.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Iris talks to him more after that, and somehow or other, this new thing starts to blossom in-between them.

They both begin to stay late after the show, after everyone has left and the lights have gone low, and it starts out as professional: he spots for her as she practices, she teaches him tricks of the trade, and she’ll show him the proper way to pack a punch while he helps her test new parts of her act.

And then it gets...less professional.

At some point, Barry starts bringing records.

(“My mom used to say that music makes everything better,” he tells her.

“Prove it,” Iris says, and then she pulls him in, and they start to dance, alone in the light of the single spotlight, the rest of the world cast in shadow, his hands on the dip of her waist and hers on the curve of his shoulders.)

And then Iris starts bringing flasks of coffee and he starts bringing brownies he always saves a bit of his paycheck to bake, and they begin to have picnics, talking and trading secrets well into the night, and she tells him how she’d like to quit the circus eventually and write full-time, and he tells her how he’d like to use his powers for some cause higher than just gaining applause.

And one time they find H. R.’s secret stash of whisky and they steal it, passing the bronze tinted bottle back and forth between them, chatting until they’re laughing, like they’re all giddy and high.

(And Barry Allen can’t get drunk on alcohol.

But he thinks he’s drunk on her.)

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

It’s late at night and there’s soft rainfall outside, and Barry and Iris are the only two people in the ring.

(It’s been seeming that way more and more anyway, like they’re the only two people in the room even when they both know they’re not. Because, sometimes, Iris really can’t see anyone but him and the curve of his lips and the shade of his eyes and the look on his face, like his gaze could cut through a crowd of a thousand to look right at her.)

And tonight Barry’s helping her with a scientific way to increase the velocity in her swings, and he’s saying words like _torque_ and _linear force_ and speeding out sentences about things like _“the applied studies of Archimedes as per the Newton-meter.”_ It’s just simple physics, Barry assures her, though Iris isn’t quite sure he’s still speaking English.

“Alright,” Barry’s shouting from far down below as Iris stands atop her platform up high in the air, “you’ll hit your perfect ninety-degree angle if you move just a bit to your left.”

(Iris can’t really see his face from up where she is, but she can see the long, lean lines of his body, and she pretends she’s only looking with professional curiosity.

She’s a performer, after all. An athlete. An aspiring reporter. She’s trained to notice little details, like the curve of his biceps when he crosses his arms and the way his white shirt stretches out over the breadth of his chest and...

...And she’s in trouble, isn’t she?)

“Iris?”

“Right,” she says, and takes a half step to her left. “Here?”

Barry consults a graph in his hand by the candlelight and Iris closes her eyes, listens to the quiet rainfall outside, and _breathes_.

(The empty circus is a completely different world at night. Gone are the surge of the crowds and the roar of the music and the glare of the spotlight. Instead, there is quiet, and the soft sparkle of candlelight from the kerosene lamps on low that paints the world shades of pale gold in its glow.

So, yes, it’s an entirely different world come nightfall.

But no less magical.)

“Almost there,” she hears Barry say. “Not quite.”

Iris hums in reply, opens her eyes, moves again.

“Just a little more to the left,” he says, and she takes another step, but he shakes his head. “No, just right - “

And then there’s a flash of gold and a flurry of sparks, and in the time it takes Iris to take a breath, Barry appears directly behind her. 

(And all the air from that breath she took disappears in a blink anyway, because he’s suddenly standing so close behind her. And she can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest and the heat of his breath against her ear, and the way his exhales make her stray strands of hair flutter and how it’s mesmerizing and electrifying all at once.)

“Here,” Barry says softly, and from behind her, he places both of his hands on the curve of her waist and moves her just half an inch over, and the touch of his hands burns through her shirt and sinks into her skin, sending a shiver right through her. And Iris can feel the waves of his meta energy, all static and sparkling and winding their way around his body and sliding in-between them.

(And the heat that radiates from him feels so good, so deliciously, intoxicatingly good, like he’s made of golden flames.

And she thinks that if he is, she’d happily burn alive just to touch him.)

“Here?” she repeats, her voice low, and she’s talking about her mark on the platform, but she also isn’t, because Iris chooses then to turn around, her waist slowly spinning in the circle of his hands, and then they’re standing face to face, her head tilted up and his tilted down.

They stand there for a minute, not moving, barely breathing, like they’re both frozen in time, and the glow of the low candlelight’s flicker reflects off the glitter of the confetti still scattered on the floor and surrounds them with shimmers of gold. And Iris can still hear the patter of light rain falling outside and the moment feels somehow surreal, both quiet and charged.

Slowly, Barry’s hand finds her face, his touch whisper soft as he runs his thumb along her skin, brushing over her cheekbones and then tracing the full curve of her lips.

And it feels dangerously intimate, treacherously tender and delicate, and she can see the dreamlike candlelight reflecting in the green of his eyes. And Iris’ brain is telling her that this is a bad idea, that once she knows what it’s like to kiss him, she won’t want a life where she’s not.

But the thing is, this realization’s come too late: Iris already wants him, wants him so badly it aches, and so she shuts out the doubts in her mind and closes her eyes, tilting her head further back.

And then his mouth is hot over hers, and his lips are velvet soft and he tastes like raspberries and summer rain and the touch of his hands feel like everything she wants - could ever want - and his fingers are pressed against the pulse point on her neck, right over the beat of her heart. And her hands come up, settle on his face, and she can feel the hard line of his jaw.

(And kissing him feels a bit like flying, like the first time she ever spun through the air on her trapeze, like each one of her nerves is lit up, like every inch of her is singing that she is electric and free and _alive_.)

And then they break away, and Iris feels all hazy and heady, like she’s drunk on his touch, and once she’s got her breath back, Iris shakes her head, face serious, says:

“Mr. Allen, if _this_ is what you call helping me with my act...”

He stammers, starts to pull away. She traps his hands.

“...then you should do it more often.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Iris has just stuck the landing when she hears a girl in the audience shout something at her.

And it’s not the worst thing that’s ever been shouted to her or about her. It doesn’t even break the top ten. The top twenty, even. And Iris pretends she doesn’t hear it, her smile stays pasted on, just like it always does.

(“You’re so strong,” H. R. told her once, after a particularly bad show where she’d finished her act without missing a beat or batting an eye at the slurs hurled onto the stage. “I don’t know how you do it.”

And he’d meant it to be nice, Iris knows, but his words rubbed at her wrong, because he’d said it like it was an _option,_ like she woke up and chose it. But _choosing,_ choosing was a luxury, a privilege for people like white men with money who chose to invest it in their own circus business. 

When the world is against you every single day just for existing, you don’t get to choose whether you want to deal with it or not, you don’t get to voluntarily become strong. 

You become strong because you don’t have a choice.

Iris couldn’t be alive now if she wasn’t.)

And when she gets to her dressing room backstage, tears don’t even come this time, because she’s just so tired. Utterly and completely tired of having to deal with this, to having to have her own separate narrative because it’s not enough to _just_ have to deal with the pressure of preforming and the stigma of working at a meta circus. Tired of the eternal fact that wherever she goes and whatever she does, she’ll always have to deal with this too.

Her dressing room is soon filled with golden sparks, and a gust of wind blows her hair back, and Iris turns, sees Barry standing there, shimmering static still spiraling ‘round his silhouette.

“Iris,” Barry says, and it’s just one word, just her name, but the tenderness in the way he says it nearly makes her come undone.

“Hey, Bear,” she says softly. 

“I’ve asked H. R. to ban the group,” he says. “Not to let that girl or her friends cheering her on to come back.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Iris says. She knows that people repeatedly come to their show, so in one way it’s a relief to know she’ll never have to see that girl’s face again, but she also knows that that girl is just another in a long, endless line that won’t ever stop. You kick one out, you knock three down, and there’s a hundred more right behind them.

“Iris,” Barry says, his voice gentle, “you shouldn’t have to put up with this.”

“You’re right,” Iris says, “I shouldn’t have to. I shouldn’t have to at all. It’s terrible and it’s cruel and it hurts, it hurts so _bad_ , Barry. But do you know what else it is in my world? It’s _normal_.”

And she watches as the realization hits him that just because this is his first time really seeing it, doesn’t mean Iris hasn’t been dealing with it every day of her life.

“What can I do?” he asks. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

Iris sees the pain in his eyes, like he wants to fight the whole world for her, like he’d gladly run its entire width and breadth over and over again if it could only change it. 

He’d do it in a heartbeat for her.

She knows he would.

“Just kiss me,” she says. Because the world is rotten and hateful and ugly, and Iris just wants something that’s not right now, wants something beautiful and good and untainted and _hers._

He hesitates, like he knows it won’t fix anything, like he wants to say something more.

“Kiss me, Barry,” she says again, and so he does, his mouth slotting over hers and his hands sliding to her sides.

(And everything’s not okay.

But the world does feel better when she’s in his arms.)

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

The meta circus has exploded into something of a phenomenon. It’s the greatest show on Earth, a paper’s recently claimed, and to celebrate, H.R. has reserved a ballroom and thrown a soirée, and invited everyone from the cast to the upper crust.

The ballroom is full. This is a fact, Barry knows, and distantly he can hear the clink of glasses and the chatter of guests, but it could be empty for all that he cares, because he only has eyes for Iris.

(She’s wearing crimson, the same color as his costume, and her lips are painted crimson too, and the silk of her dress glides over her curves in a way that clearly shows the hourglass shape of her body and he thinks that she looks ethereal, like she’s something celestial or someone out of a fairy tale because there’s no way that kind of beauty is found on earth.)

“Dance with me,” he says, because he can’t help it, not with the way she looks right then.

Iris laughs, because she’d made clear earlier that she hadn’t thought much of the music. “Really, Barry?”

“Come on,” he begs. “Just one dance.”

Her eyes sparkle as she studies him, and he can see the way she smiles and the second she gives in.

And then he’s twining their hands together and leading her out to the dance floor before the song can end.

“Slow down, Barry,” Iris laughs teasingly. “You won’t die if you don’t get to dance with me.”

“I might.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“What other girls?” he counters.

And it’s true. There’s only her, only really ever been her. She’s gorgeous and talented and sharp as a knife and she feels impossibly right in his arms, and there’s no doubt in his mind that she is the one he was meant to find.

“What are you thinking?” she asks as they sway.

And he thinks: _I love you, I was made to love you._

And he thinks: _I must’ve loved you before I even knew what love was._

And out loud he says: “Nothing, you’re just really pretty.”

Iris laughs, moves her hand from his shoulder to stroke his face.

“You’re a sap, Barry Allen,” she says.

And he thinks she has no idea.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

And then some rich white boy at the party gets drunk and says something. Because of course he does. Because it’s the job of the privileged to remind everyone else that they’re not.

And the gist of the comment is: Barry can’t possibly love her and must have a fetish, and Iris can’t possibly love him and must just be trying to elevate her status.

(And, just like that, it’s too much. The spoken words. Even the unspoken ones. The constant ugliness that’s hurled her way. The way their hatred burns and makes her feel sick in the pit of her stomach, like she’s lesser than when she knows she’s not. 

And it’s stupid, so, so stupid, because even in a world built on fantasy, people still zero in on the color of her skin. In a world where a man can run halfway around the world in a heartbeat and she works at a job where the impossible happens on demand, Iris is still the different one. The one that doesn’t fit in, the one that can’t be accepted. 

It’s sickening, knife-twisting, and she just wants to scream. Because some days, that’s all you feel like doing, screaming against the unfairness of the whole rotten world and all the people in it who’ll never truly see you let alone love you.)

And Barry is still holding onto her, lovingly, protectively, like he wants to build a wall around her so thick and so high she’ll never hear anything at all that would ever try to make her cry.

But Iris shakes herself out of his grasp, walks right up to the miserable excuse of a person, and enjoys the way he seems to shrink under her gaze as she looks him right in the eye.

“Your opinion was as unasked for as it was uneducated,” she says, her voice steely and even and calm. “And I don’t have any patience to deal with rich little white boys who can’t even hold their champagne or who need to insult others to make themselves feel like more of a man.”

Then Iris turns on her heel, and walks out of the ballroom, collected and queenlike.

And then, as soon as she’s out of view, she borrows a page from Barry’s book:

And she runs.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

“Iris,” Barry says when he finds her, away from the crowds and the lights and the stares, safe in the empty center ring, the glow washing over her and mixing with shadow. “Iris, I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t mean for her to see, but Iris can tell from the pale bruises blossoming on Barry’s knuckles that he punched that boy, and she feels a victorious sort of pleasure at the thought, won’t pretend she doesn’t.

Not that it matters in the long run. She knows that he could punch through a whole room and it still wouldn’t change a thing.

(Other couples like them are out there, Iris knows. History likes to erase them, while the world goes on spinning and pretending that they don’t exist. But they’re out there. Married, even. Some with kids. But it’s hard. There’s no denying that, no thinking that isn’t a fact.

Because to love him and to have him love her back was to have the universe against them.)

“That’s the way the world is, Barry,” Iris says, and she laughs, all bitter and raw and sad. “That’s what people look at us like, what they’ll always look at us like if we keep doing this.”

“They’re hate-filled and small-minded,” Barry says fiercely. “They don’t matter.”

“Don't you care about what the world will think?”

“Iris,” he says, “you _are_ my world.”

(And she nearly cries, because she wants him so badly. She knows there’s no one out there like Barry Allen, knows there never will be anyone like him ever again. But there’s no way the universe will ever let her have him, she thinks. He is not hers. She is not his. They are like two separate destines, two constellations in the sky that were never made to meet.

Loving someone does not make them yours, after all.)

“You don’t want to deal with this, Barry,” Iris says. 

“Iris, there’s _nothing_ in the universe I want so much as you,” Barry says, his voice all gentle and soft. “Do you know what I was going to do tonight? I was going to ask you to marry me.”

Iris falls into stunned silence, stops and stares, and it’s like a phonograph needle has come off a record or the world has slipped off its axis, and Iris’ ears are filled with scratching static and she thinks that she must’ve misheard him, because Barry Allen couldn’t have just said that, not to her. 

“What?” 

“Iris,” Barry says, and she can see there’s a thin band of gold he holds in his hand. “I _love_ you. You don’t need to say it back, you don’t have to marry me. I know you have to think about things right now, deal with things I can’t begin to understand. But this ring was my mother’s and it’s supposed to be worn by the one person I love enough to be Mrs. Allen. That’s you, Iris,” he tells her. “It’s always been you. It’s always only going to be you.”

“Barry,” Iris says, her voice breaking around his name, “I - “

And she hates that she lives in a world where she has to think about this, that she just can’t love him and he can’t just love her, and she hasn’t even realized she’s started to cry, until Barry comes closer, dips his head down, and presses his lips right on the wet curve of her cheek, kissing her tears away with a tenderness that nearly makes her forget to breathe.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, and his head is still bent down close to hers, his lips brushing against her skin as he speaks. And the lights are all dim and they’re both cast in shadow, and Iris wants to lean into him and close her eyes but she also is scared of falling too hard for things the world will never let her have.

(She’s lying to herself, though. She’s already fallen, can never go back to the way she’s been.)

“You don’t have to answer me,” he says softly, and he takes her hand, places the ring into the center of her palm, and then folds her fingers safely over it. “But know that you’ll always be the only Mrs. Allen. My heart’s yours, Iris, it’s never going to be anyone else’s.”

And then he presses a kiss to her fingers.

These are just words, Iris tells herself, he is not hers.

(And she is wrong.)

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Barry didn’t plan on dying; but it happens like this:

Iris is working, obsessively typing away while the circus unfolds around her, like she’s writing herself a better future. And Barry’s both nearby and keeping his distance, letting her have the space she needs to process what she has to.

(And she can take all the time in the world she needs to answer him, he thinks. His feelings won’t change:

He’s in love with her.

He’ll never _not_ be in love with her.) 

And at first, everything's fine. And then:

There are puddles, leftover from rainfall through the leaky roof, and there is chaos from the crew, and then there are yellow sparks and wires falling through the air...

And there is Iris.

And the thing is, it’s all happening so fast and he’s already so far away that he knows without a doubt that he can scoop her up and get her out but that he could get electrocuted instead as he does. All it would take is one touch, and he can’t outrun electricity. He is not invincible, after all.

But she...she is irreplaceable.

(And there’s no point living in a world without Iris West in it. The very idea is utterly unacceptable, completely incomprehensible.)

So he runs straight toward danger, straight toward her, shoves her out of the way, and he almost makes it.

 _Almost._ It’s a funny word, isn’t it? 

And then there are sparks on his skin and sharp pain splitting his bones and a scream on his tongue and the only thing he can think of as his heart stutters out is:

_I love you, Iris West._

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Iris has just nearly died, but all she can think is:

Barry’s unconscious.

He’s just saved her life and he’s unconscious.

Maybe dying. 

And seeing him lie there is like being sucker punched, like being knocked out flat on her back with no oxygen in her lungs, or like she’s falling from her wire with no net below her, just air and air and air and the terrifying feeling that she’s going to hit ground anytime now. 

And Iris hears screaming, is dimly aware that maybe it’s _her_ , and somewhere in the back of her mind she registers Wally prying her hands off Barry’s body. 

“Iris,” Wally says, his voice sounding all distant and foggy, “Iris, sis, you have to let go.”

“There’s a hospital on fifth with a doctor who’s said to treat metas,” H. R. says. “Speed him there.”

And then, in the blink of an eye, Barry is gone with Wally and Iris can do nothing but sink to her knees. 

_Come back to me,_ she thinks.

(And she begs that the universe will let him.)

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Iris stands in front of a hospital desk and a stern looking nurse all in white. And Iris has tear stained cheeks and red rimmed eyes from how hard she’s been crying, and she doesn’t think she’s ever felt the need to see someone so badly in her entire life.

(She remembers one winter when she was seven and got lost in a snowstorm. Remembers the world being swirls of cold, blinding white and her thinking, _I need to find home or I’ll die._

It’s a little like that. Like she’s desperate and dying. Like time won’t move and the world won’t spin until she gets to see him again.)

“I’m here to see a patient that was brought in,” Iris says, willing herself to be calm and strong. “His name is Barry Allen.”

The nurse eyes her skeptically, and for a minute Iris thinks that she’ll be told to leave, but then the nurse asks, “What’s your name?” 

“Iris West,” Iris tells her, and then she sees the nurse start to say _no,_ to point at a sign on the wall that says _Relations Only_ , and then, hastily, behind the desk and in-between the folds of her skirt, Iris slips the ring she’s been carrying out of her pocket and onto her finger, and quickly adds, “Allen. Iris West-Allen.” 

And then she raises her left hand, her ring glinting gold in the light.

( _“You’re Mrs. Allen_ ,” the echo of Barry’s voice says in her memory. “ _You always will be._ ”)

The nurse looks surprised, and for a second she’s speechless, and Iris is ready to scream and to beg and to plead, because she will do anything, anything at all to see him.

(Just let them try to not let her in, Iris thinks. She’ll march through the corridors herself, check every room till she finds him, because there’s no force on this earth that can stop her from being by Barry’s side.)

And then a voice from somewhere behind her goes, “Allen? You’re here for Bartholomew Henry Allen?”

Iris turns, sees a red-haired woman, and she too wears white, but it’s not a nurse’s uniform, it’s the coat of a doctor.

“Yes,” Iris says. “I’m Iris West-Allen.”

“Mr. Allen’s my patient,” the woman says. “Come, I’ll take you to him.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

The woman - Dr. Snow - leads her to the room where a sleeping Barry lies, and Iris reaches out automatically, the tips of her fingers stroking his still-sleeping face.

And this is what she fought for, to be here in this room and to see him again, but now that she’s here, it’s all somehow worse. She looks at him laying there and she feels her stomach drop, like she’s just jumped without a wire and has no idea what’s waiting below.

“Will he be okay?” Iris asks, not taking her eyes off of him, as if she needs to study his breathing, like his chest won’t dare stop rising and falling just as long as she’s watching. “Will he wake up?”

“His heart stopped. He had quite a shock to his system, literally, so his meta healing didn't kick in immediately,” Dr. Snow tells her. “But it’s working now. He should wake up soon and be just fine.”

Iris nods, her hand going down to hold Barry’s, as if he’s her lifeline and she’s his.

And the doctor stares at their intwined hands and says, “You must really love him.”

“I do,” Iris says, quietly but fiercely, “I do.”

The doctor gives her a small smile, nods, says, “Goodnight, Mrs. West-Allen.”

“Goodnight.”

The doctor leaves, the echo of her footsteps fading down the hall. And there’s nothing but silence, and then:

“Iris West-Allen, huh?” a voice says, and Iris spins around to see that Barry’s awake and blinking up at her, a crooked smile on his face. “You hyphenated. I like it.”

And seeing him smile is like letting out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, like setting down a load she’d been carrying for centuries or like finally finding sanctuary. And she’s so happy she doesn’t even care that he’s caught her using his name, doesn’t even care what anyone will think if they see her doing what she’s doing now: climbing onto the bed beside him.

(Let them think what they want. She’s never letting this boy go again.)

And though he is lying there, though there are bruises on his body and blood on his bandages, he smiles. 

He smiles because he’s looking at _her._

“Hey,” he says softly. “Don’t cry.”

He reaches a hand up, fingers framing her face, and he gently wipes her tears away. Because even in a hospital bed, all he can think about - all he can ever think about - is her. 

He runs his thumb over the curve of her cheekbones, and she leans into the tender curl of his palm, and Iris wants to shut her eyes and lean into his touch, but she also doesn’t want to stop looking at him, awake and alive and by her side. 

“So, was that name just for the hospital’s benefit,” Barry asks, and he’s trying so hard to keep his tone casual but there’s hope that’s alight in his eyes, “or did you really decide to become Iris West-Allen?”

“I’ve always been Iris West-Allen,” she says, and it’s true. She’s always had his heart, and he’s always had hers, right from the moment they met. “I’ve always been yours.”

Barry Allen is her destiny, and she dares the world to fight her on that, because she’ll fight back even harder.

(And loving someone shouldn’t need to be revolutionary, but for them it is.

And they’ll change the world, one day at a time.)

And so Iris leans down and kisses him, and it’s soft and it’s sweet and it gives her the overwhelming sensation of _home_.

(And the thing is, she can see it all in an instant: A life with him. A future. A home. A bed. His love and his kisses and their kids who are the perfect mix of both of their parents. A life where she writes and he runs and they both save the world by doing what they do best.

And she knows that somehow, someday, they’re going to get there.)

★・・・ ** _Epilogue_** ・・・★

There is a moment of darkness...

And then the lights come up and the world’s an explosion of music and movement and color.

It’s the show’s grand finale, and Barry’s running in the center ring. There is glitter in the air and firecrackers going off, and everywhere the performers are dancing and singing and the audience is cheering. But throughout all the noise and the movement, Barry only sees _Iris_ , her smile brilliant and wide, her hands thrown up joyfully high, and he feels himself swell with pride.

(She’s written a piece and it’s taken perseverance and it’s taken time, but it’s just gotten picked up by a paper. 

It’s her biggest piece yet.

He knows she’ll only write bigger.)

And then Barry can’t help it, he runs by her side, goes into flash-time, and all around them, colorful confetti is stilled in midair, paper streamers paused halfway down in the sky, the melody on the record frozen in time. 

Iris takes in the bright golden shimmer of his speed energy curling around them, raises an eyebrow, like she thinks she should scold him, but he knows she won’t, because her eyes are too bright and her smile’s too wide.

“Using flash-time in the middle of a show?” Iris asks, trying very hard to sound surprised and scandalized. “Really, Barry?”

He shrugs, can’t help the grin that’s already starting to tug on the corners of his mouth, “What’s the use of flash time if I can’t use it to kiss my wife?”

His hands curve around her waist and he dips her back, and she wraps her arms around him, throws her head back and laughs, and she only stops when his lips find hers.

(And after all these years, he still sees stars.)

“I love you, Barry Allen,” she murmurs against his mouth.

“I love you, Iris West-Allen,” he replies.

And he can’t think of anything more true.

**Author's Note:**

> How do we rewrite the stars?  
> Say you were made to be mine?  
> Nothing can keep us apart,  
> 'Cause you are the one I was meant to find.
> 
> I really wanted to do this story justice, so this is the longest and hardest I’ve ever worked on a fic, and it’s also the most personal, since Iris’ thoughts when dealing with racism are based on my own emotions I’ve gone through when facing racism and ignorance when I’m just trying to live my life.
> 
> If you want to hmu to cry about The Gold Standard™️, or see me make a bunch of Westallen gifs of them gazing at each other with heart eyes, come find me on Twitter (@irisbestallen) or Tumblr (iris-west-allens.tumblr.com).
> 
> If you enjoyed this story, please leave a comment or kudos. ❤️


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